


Loutre

by Morgyn Leri (morgynleri)



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean: At World's End (2007), Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest (2006)
Genre: GFY, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-20
Updated: 2012-10-20
Packaged: 2017-11-16 16:48:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/541692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morgynleri/pseuds/Morgyn%20Leri
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loutre. Mon père called me Loutre.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cabin Boy

"Reef those sails, you worthless dogs!"

The strident voice called up from deck, and Joan scrabbled with the rest to haul the sodden sails in, swaying precariously above the rolling deck. She prayed wordlessly as she worked. _Marie, mère d'un dieu, nous protègent._

"The devil is in this wind," muttered her companion, hauling sail as fast as he could in the weather. "Mark me words, sea-monkey, there be a living gale after us."

"Thank God we're homeward bound, then. Better to be racing before de gale then to be caught by it, and crashed upon de waves." Joan finished her task, making sure the sail was secure before scrambling with Jonathan towards the mast, climbing towards the topgallant mast to trim the sail as the first mate bellowed orders against the wind.

"If we can make it without being crashed on a reef. Be better to be back in Tortuga with a wench on me knee, an' no devil sent storm to try to send the lot of us to Davy Jones. Rather give me soul to the devil himself before meetin' up with Davy Jones."

Joan kept silent, tightening her grip on the tarred rope as rain beat against her exposed skin, needle-sharp. The ship heaved up one side of a wave only to slide down its back, the wind howling sounding like the souls of the damned to her. She began to mouth silent prayers, hoping the ship would ride out the storm in one piece, and that she'd see them all back to Tortuga.

The only warning she had before the lightning struck were the fine hairs on the back of her neck standing up. She couldn't even hear herself scream as she tumbled into the black and unforgiving waves below, her last thought how she'd rather face the Davy Jones Jonathan so feared than face death and the devil.

* * *

"Boy's not quite dead, sure's he's like to wish he were." A voice spoke above Joan, and there were a chorus of chuckles around her. Someone prodded her in the ribs, and she coughed, spitting up sea water.

Opening her eyes, she frowned, wondering why it looked like she was on the deck of a sunken ship. "Que? Where am I?" she asked as she slowly stood, rubbing her eyes to get ease the stinging, probably caused by salt crust getting into them.

"You're aboard the Flying Dutchman, boy." A new voice spoke, and Joan turned to face the owner, her eyes widening, and her jaw dropping slightly.

"Mère d'un dieu. Qui êtes-vous?" She bit her tongue as her voice spiralled higher, coming out in a squeak of fear.

The creature standing before her looked surprised, and Joan hoped it hadn't seen right through her, and figured out her secret. The one she'd hidden from the crew so well for years.

"Davy Jones," it replied after a moment, the expression fading into something unreadable. "What be your name, boy?"

Joan licked her lips, swallowing against the constriction in her throat. "De crew of de Mary Ellen called me sea-monkey. Dat's all de name I know."

Davy Jones snorted, his expression changing little, but Joan felt a chill go down her spine.

"Loutre. Mon père called me Loutre when I was little, because I swam like de otters in de river," she blurted out, trying to keep on the strange creature's good side. If it has a good side.

"Otter." Davy Jones crossed his arms over his chest, and watched her for a long moment before he spoke again. "Do you wish to put off judgement of your soul? To serve a hundred years in the crew of the Flying Dutchman? Or would you rather die now?"

Joan blinked, surprised now. Perhaps this Davy Jones hadn't seen through her, hadn't been able to tell she was no boy under her clothing. But if he had, why had he offered her a place in his crew? She pushed the question aside for examination later, licking her lips.

"I will serve in the crew of the Flying Dutchman, for her captain, Davy Jones, as he has laid out the terms." She spoke carefully, enunciating each word as she'd learned from her mother.

Davy Jones was silent a moment, then nodded, and left, leaving Joan to the orders of the boson and the questions that swirled in her head, unspoken.


	2. Otter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Call me Otter. Dat's what mon père called me.

Joan curled her hands into fists a moment, then spread the fingers wide again, studying them for a long moment. Pale skin, and the tracery of veins beneath, tendons visible as she stretched her fingers as far as they'd go. No barnacles or other sea life clinging to her flesh, to change her, bind her to the ship as intimately as she had.

"You're free to go, if you wish."

She looked up at the new captain, keeping silent for a long moment, not trusting her voice to remain steady, and not give her gender away. He wasn't much older than she had been when she fell from the mast of the Mary Ellen, his face still smooth and boyish.

"An' go where?" She shrugged one shoulder. "All I ever wanted was t' sail de sea. 'Ere, I can sail de sea fo'ever. Why would I wish t' leave?"

He chuckled, the corner of his mouth quirking upward. "What's your name?"

Joan hesitated, frowning slightly. "Call me Otter. Dat's what mon père called me 'fore 'e died. 'S all de name I answer to anymore."

"Otter?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Loutre, as mon père said eet. Like dem dat's in de river." Joan shrugged. "Eet don't matter what language you use. Still Otter."

He nodded. "I'm Will Turner."

"Captain Turner." Joan nodded, shifting slightly. "I'll go an' do my chores wit' de crew. Eet's good t' meet you, captain." She paused as she turned away. "You be a better captain, I t'ink, den Joans. Your lady a less fickle lady den his. An votre père, 'e's a good man. I'd t'ink 'is son be a good man, too."

She scampered to the rigging, hauling herself toward the sky before he could say anything in response, a grin spreading across her face as she turned it into the wind. _C'est paradis. Il n'y a rien davantage que je pourrais souhaiter mais ceci._

**Author's Note:**

> Posted on LJ on 11 August 2007.


End file.
